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Before she can say anything, I swoop down and grab the highlighter. I hand it to her; she takes it with a dignified gesture. She clears her throat in a tiny noise.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
You’re welcome, and you’ll always be, I want to say.I’ll pick up every highlighter and pen you drop. I’ll hold every door open and carry all your books. Just ask me, Theodora, and I’ll do it.
Mr Ambrose asked me to look after you—let me.
Of course, I say none of those things. We don’t speak for the rest of the lesson. When the bell rings and Mr Kiehn dismisses us, she packs her things as she always does, with quick, clinical precision. She stands, hesitates, gives me a nod and leaves.
“Bye, Theodora,” I answer.
Duringourfinaltermin Year 9, everything ramps up. Once we’ve all decided on our GCSE options and we all know the grades we need to make it into our desired subjects, everyone feels the pressure coming down. Our teachers, intent on giving us a “taste” of what GCSEs will be like, suddenly crank up the difficulty in every subject.
Thanks to all the hard work I’ve been putting in since Year 8, I’m as prepared as I could wish to be. Both Theodora and I seem to be keeping afloat, but the teachers just take that as a personal challenge.
In English, Mr Kiehn decides to end the year strong with a unit on the study of the Modern Prometheus. I go into the topic feeling confident since I have good knowledge of Greek mythology.
Except Mr Kiehn isn’t concerned with mythology. He’s concerned with the Prometheus myth and what he calls “the Prometheus character”. He wants us to question why the Prometheus myth resonates so much with mankind, specifically focusing on the Romantics. He pulls out Shelley’s and Byron’s poems and tells us our investigation of the topic will culminate in the reading and study of Mary Shelley’sFrankenstein.
The escalation feels drastic, but at my side, Theodora is calm in her glass coffin. She’s like a statue of ice when she sits, her back straight, reading Byron’s “Prometheus”. I steal sidelong glances at her. Prometheus’s stolen fire could not have melted the ice Theodora is made of.
I tear my attention away from her and read through the poem, making notes on words I’m going to have to look up. I reach the final line of the poem and frown.
“And making Death a Victory.”
I stare at the line, then whisper it to myself. The words “Death” and “Victory” both make sense—separately. My eyes climb back up the lines like a ladder, trying to find the beginning of the sentence.
“To which his Spirit may oppose
Itself—and equal to all woes,
And a firm will, and a deep sense,
Which even in torture can descry
Its own concenter’d recompense,
Triumphant where it dares defy,
And making Death a Victory.”
I raise my hand, and Mr Kiehn smiles at me, eyebrows raised. “You’re done reading it, Zachary?”
“I’ve just finished, sir. But I don’t understand the ending. How can death be a victory?”
Mr Kiehn gives a sphinx smile. “That’s what we’ll be seeking to find out.”
He gives us instructions to have another read of the poem and start our annotations while he writes some questions on the whiteboard. When he’s facing away from the classroom, Theodora speaks without looking up from her poem.
“If you understood the Prometheus myth, you’d understand why death is a victory.”
Her voice is quiet, barely above a murmur. I turn my head, taken by surprise.
“I do understand the Prometheus myth. I’m just not sure Byron understood it.”
“You think you have a better understanding of the Prometheus myth than one of the most influential poets of the Romantic movement?”
